


Realizations

by StrikerDouchecanoe



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: 1x08, F/M, day trip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 10:49:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3287492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrikerDouchecanoe/pseuds/StrikerDouchecanoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coda to 1x08, because my dear meme friend Megan pointed out that there weren't enough Day Trip fics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Realizations

Everything Bellamy’s been trying to hold at arm’s length comes crashing down on him in the space of half an hour. All the guilt, the unfathomable weight of his brief twenty-three years, and every way in which he loathes himself burst through the dam he’d built with the help of a couple of jobi nuts.

 

The cracks had begun to form before the hallucinations, if he’s being honest. The irreparable fissures in Bellamy Blake’s carefully constructed walls appear when he gingerly wraps himself around Clarke Griffin to demonstrate proper rifle technique and his nerves spark and zing like he’s touching a live wire. 

He storms out, furious with himself, biting out a harsh, ‘keep practicing,’ over his shoulder. He blames the sudden dizziness on Clarke’s proximity. He blames his reaction to Clarke’s proximity on not enough sleep.

He’s not prepared for what follows, either—his nightmares taking physical form as the three hundred and twenty lives he’s responsible for ending, the realization that their blood is on his hands along with Charlotte’s and Wells’ and probably Murphy’s too and  _God help him, his mother’s blood_ —and when he finds himself staring down the barrel of a gun, he’s just bone tired.

As usual, he doesn’t count on Clarke Griffin. She’s a blue-eyed hurricane, doing her best to hold Dax off— _defending me,_ Bellamy realizes through the pain and weariness clouding over his soul—and he fires not to defend himself, because he doesn’t want to live anymore; but to save her. To save  _Clarke._

She tells him he’s not a monster, that he’s the only reason the hundred has made it this far, that  _she needs him,_ and Bellamy crumbles.

His head is in his hands and he lets the tears fall, and he’s in the middle of wondering how he’ll ever come back from this when he feels a gentle hand rest at the nape of his neck, fingers tentatively carding through his dark curls and the thumb rubbing small circles on the skin just above his shirt collar, and he doesn’t  _mean_ to shudder, but he does (she notices).

When Clarke scoots over and presses her shoulder against his, Bellamy leans against her and reaches for her hand—both a silent thanks and the biggest risk he’s taken since he pulled the trigger to get on the drop ship—and Clarke meets him halfway and twists her fingers firmly through his. 

They sit like that for a long time, until after night’s fallen (they both avoid looking at the stars), and just before Bellamy pulls Clarke to her feet to return to camp, he presses a kiss to her forehead, thinking for the first time in over a year—since the Guard found Octavia—that maybe he’ll be okay.


End file.
